The Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship
by Elizabeth Culmer
Summary: Wherein Dave Strider meets John Crocker at a Hollywood pool party. (Alpha Timeline Fluff, part 1)


**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Andrew Hussie. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Author's Note:** This was written for Cotton Candy Bingo (a Dreamwidth fanwork bingo community dedicated to fluff) in response to the prompt: _casual_.

**Summary:** Wherein Dave Strider meets John Crocker at a Hollywood pool party. Alpha timeline fluff. (No, really!)

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**The Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship** (2,350 words)

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Hollywood was an ironist's wet dream, Dave thought as he lounged against the stucco wall surrounding some interchangeable actor's extravagant backyard. One endless dizzy round of desperate people trying to act cool, to maneuver themselves into the company of whichever handful of people were currently consider to be on top, and to pull down everyone else in their wake. Glitz and glam and tacky spray-on tans, and so much plastic he thought it might qualify as more of an environmental hazard than the ever-present smog of Los Angeles.

Luckily he didn't give a shit about any of them. He'd made more than enough money already playing around with JPEG artifacts - not that anyone here knew that, he was keeping that on the down-low until leaking the info would be more beneficial - and he could buy a whole fucking studio if he wanted, just like Sony only with an actual artistic vision. And the sharks could sense his lack of interest. It drew them, made them wonder what his secret was, if he could do anything for them.

It was amazing what moving a thousand miles and wearing a suit instead of a T-shirt could do to enhance an aura of cool. Instant mystique, just add water! He was starting to see why Lalonde liked dressing up in evening gowns all the time. There was something seductive about formal wear, even in ridiculously inappropriate situations like afternoon pool parties.

Dave stuffed his hands into his pockets and watched the plastic people do the status waltz in and around the swimming pool. Sunlight struck gorgeous abstract patterns off the surface of the water, broken here and there by the solid, brownish lump of a human body. Turds floating in electric disco heaven, he thought, and wondered what he could do with that image. He'd had some success with his experiments in cut-rate indie underground comics, but they just didn't reach enough eyes. If he mixed that surrealistic narrative style with the worst malfunctions of digital cameras, threw some music on top, he could really be onto something. A dozen more scripts for other people, maybe a few guest directing gigs on television, and he'd have the cachet to wrangle his own film...

"You are far too young to be wearing a suit like that at a party like this," a voice pronounced from his blind side.

Dave tensed, pointedly not turning or even moving his head the fraction necessary to look over his shoulder. Fucking nobody snuck up on him (okay, aside from Lalonde, who was the exception to every rule, let us worship her and despair) but within one week of his arrival in Hollywood, _two_ complete strangers had somehow slipped through his proximity radar. First Jade English at a charity dinner, who'd turned out to be a batshit crazy granny and apparently liked to accessorize her glam rags with hiking boots and a rifle strapped to her back, and now... John Crocker, the comedian? What the hell, world. What the hell.

"My amazing stylishness acknowledges no limits, temporal or otherwise," Dave said, as he finally turned, leaning sideways against the wall. The stucco was probably doing terrible things to the wool of his suit jacket, but oh well, entropy happened. He looked the interloper up and down from behind his cheap dollar store shades. Yep. John Crocker: glasses, mustache, and all. Also board shorts and flipflops, which went oddly with the ever-present bow tie, but Dave wasn't going to harsh on another man's sartorial choices.

"Nice to meet you, Mister...?" He left the sentence hanging for Crocker to fill in.

"John Crocker," the dude said obligingly. "And you're Dave Strider, up and coming scriptwriter, not to mention innovator in the field of digital recording and projection! Both of which are identities that we each already knew, but I won't hold that against you! Pleased to meet you, Strider." He held out his hand, fingers wiggling in pointed invitation.

Warily, Dave extended his own hand, the sleeve of his suit jacket pulling back just enough to reveal an inch of bony wrist. He really needed to buy some cufflinks or something. Little record-shaped decals, maybe, some kind of 8-bit pixel art.

Crocker's grip was firm and dry, old man skin loose and papery over his old man tendons and bones. Dave opened his mouth to say something - who even knew what, he ran his mouth on autopilot most of the time, trusting that nobody was sharp enough to see through him like Lalonde always did - but froze as he felt something sharp-edged press into the center of his palm. The fuck?

One second later, he yanked his fingers back almost fast enough to break the sound barrier, barely managing not to visibly wince at the electric zap of a joy buzzer.

Crocker threw back his head and laughed, a roar of sound that billowed up from his gut and seemed to waft over the patio, lightening the omnipresent air of desperation and backstabbing ambition like a breath of clean mountain air in the smoggy, sweltering afternoon. Dave twitched infinitesimally, sure that a hundred eyes would turn their way - he might look hells of cool in this classy three-piece suit, but he didn't need unplanned flashbulb attention until he'd done a bit more groundwork getting his own rumors out to where they'd do the most good - but nobody so much as blinked.

Weird.

Then again, it wasn't like he was unaware of how zombie-zoned humanity had gotten these days. Hell, fighting that - shaking people up, making them pay attention to the world around them through the sheer force of ironic non sequiturs - was half the reason he was in this shitty city in the first place.

And Crocker had stopped laughing and seemed like he was waiting for Dave to react to his little prank. Sure, whatever. Dave could play the game.

"Real magic fingers you got there," he said.

"Oh, indeed, indeed," Crocker said, eyes glinting behind his shit-awful coke bottle glasses. "One hundred percent guaranteed pure wizardry, accept no substitutes or imitations." He held up his empty hands for display, the evil electric gizmo tucked safely away in his sylladex.

Dave nodded solemnly. "Awesome. But tell me, sugar daddy, do you share that trick with all the girls?"

Crocker blinked, apparently caught off guard. "Do I... sugar daddy... _what?_"

Score, Dave thought, chalking up a mental tally mark on his side of an equally imaginary chalkboard. He tugged his shades down his nose, just enough to expose his eyes over the rims, and fluttered his lashes. "I thought we had something special, big boy. Or are you the use 'em and lose 'em type, like everyone else in this town?"

He watched as understanding kindled in Crocker's baby blues, wondered which way the old dude would jump. Hollywood was pretty liberal, sure, but Hollywood was also pretty fucking paranoid and Crocker was practically a living dinosaur in any case, one genuine bona fide fossil come wandering out of the Jurassic to show these young whippersnappers how humor was done back in the day.

Crocker harrumphed, adjusted his bow tie, and leaned in to say in a low and carefully gentle voice, "Son, I'm flattered by your interest, but I must inform you that my preferences lie elsewhere. However, if you ever need any help finding a like-minded young man, do feel free to ask my assistance! I dare say I don't exaggerate when I claim to know everyone in this town, and in the service of helping you create a loving family, I am more than pleased to-"

He went on and on, gradually getting louder and louder as he extolled the virtue of family values no matter what a person's sexual orientation, telling Dave he understood the loneliness a young man feels in a new city among strangers, assuring him that there was a wonderful person out there for him, etcetera, etcetera, and Dave stood there wondering how the hell the joke had suddenly spun out of his control. Not that he had anything against finding a "nice young man" (or woman, or whatever), but jesus fuck _no_ he didn't want a family. Lalonde could take care of herself, but love meant offering hostages to fate and the shadowy forces he _knew_ were slowly fucking over the world even if he and Rose hadn't quite pieced together all the details yet.

His discomfort must have communicated despite his silence, because Crocker suddenly halted his spiel and grinned, pure and blinding. "Gotcha!" he exclaimed, before dissolving into another burst of raucous laughter.

Dave blinked. Then he realized he'd never pushed his shades back up. No wonder Crocker had known his prank was working - he'd seen Dave reacting. Well shit, there went any chance of convincing the dude to buy into his growing reputation for unsurpassed chill. But Crocker didn't seem inclined to flinch at 'unnatural demon eyes' or any of the retarded superstitious bullshit that had dogged Dave's childhood, so whatever, no use crying over spilled apple juice.

"Well played, sir, I tip my hat in surrender," Dave said. "Or I would if I had a hat, but I dunno, they've never been my thing. At least not the kind that would go with the suit."

"Ah yes, that suit," Crocker said. "I stand by my opinion that you are far too young to be wearing such an article of clothing at such an informal gathering as this. At a premiere or an evening soirée a touch of class certainly doesn't go amiss, but at a house party where a good quarter of the guests are indulging in the host's swimming pool? Tch!"

"Says the man in the bow tie," Dave said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers and resuming his insouciant slouch against the stucco wall.

"Says the man who is four times your age," Crocker corrected. "Nobody wants to see me in a bathing suit."

"But I should parade the goods, is that what you're saying? Man, I gotta tell you, you sure don't do a good job convincing me you don't swing my direction." Dave let the corner of his mouth turn up just a hair.

Crocker smiled back, all buck teeth and amusement. "Perhaps I should work on that. What do you think, would an appalled gasp and a strident cry of 'no homo' be appropriate in this case?"

Dave pressed his lips together, stifling the urge to laugh. What was it with this dude? He'd never clicked with anyone this fast except Lalonde, and maybe Jade English if she hadn't spent their entire conversation talking way too fast about crazy shit and then dashing off with a gaudy green-and-rainbow brick of a cell phone jammed to her ear. But Crocker felt like those ladies did, like a lifelong friend he'd just drifted out of touch with for a while but now they were picking up where they'd left off instead of getting to know each other for the first time.

"Nah, don't bother," he said. "World's got enough uptight assholes already, who needs another?"

"Which is precisely my point about your attire!" Crocker said triumphantly, jabbing a finger into Dave's chest, pressing his vest and tie close to the skin. "You, my boy, are overcompensating for something. Now you can take my advice or not, but in my opinion the worst thing to do in this city is give one good goddamn what other people think. Whatever image you're trying to cultivate is not worth spending your entire life behind a mask. And if you're a crusader - no, don't purse your lips at me, I know the look of a crusader when I see one - you should make a point to keep a corner of your life free from your particular obsession, lest it eat you alive."

Uh-_huh_. And apparently the dude had issues. Was anyone else sensing issues? Because Dave was definitely sensing issues. Might be worth siccing Lalonde on the problem, if only to distract her from the slightly more than half-serious plans she'd started making to dismember her agent, her editor, and anyone else involved in her upcoming book tour.

Dave insinuated his hand under Crocker's wrist and gently pushed the dude's finger away from his clothes.

"I'll be sure to keep that under consideration," he said dryly.

Crocker rolled his eyes. "I also know the look of someone preparing to blow me off and do whatever you damn well intended to in the first place. I couldn't stop my sister and I'm sure you're equally committed to whatever cause you've decided to throw your life at. But if you can ever bear to allow yourself a day off, feel free to call me."

"I'll keep that under consideration too," Dave said in the exact same tone of voice, but since Crocker didn't roll his eyes again, presumably the dude had the same eerie knack Lalonde did for telling when Dave was actually being serious.

"Good boy," Crocker said instead, and patted Dave's hair as if he were a freaking puppy. "Now, what do you say we blow this popsicle stand and find a more interesting way to spend the afternoon?"

"Really not convincing me you're not after my luscious ass, dude," Dave managed to say after a far-too-noticeable pause.

Crocker winked, his mustache quivering with the effort it took to hold back another one of those gut-busting laughs. "Strider, you're younger than my own son, and cradle-robbing has never been one of my quirks. This is an offer of friendship, pure and simple. You're not likely to receive another any time soon. What do you say?" His eyes strayed suspiciously upward toward the top of Dave's head.

Dave carefully reached up and touched his hair. Then he tossed the purple balloon penis into the air, grabbed a katana from his specibus, and neatly punctured the thing through the balls. By the time anyone looked over to find the source of the sudden bang, he had his sword hidden once more and his empty hand held out toward Crocker.

"I say ice cream and you're paying," he said.

"Deal," Crocker said promptly, and shook Dave's hand.

Dave stole the joy buzzer.

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**AN:** Thanks for reading, and please review! I appreciate all comments, but I'm particularly interested in knowing what parts of the story worked for you, what parts didn't, and _why_.

**Further Note:** So it turns out that writing anything about technology circa 1993 (which is when I somewhat arbitrarily decided to set this fic - based on page 6607, I assume Dave and Rose landed sometime between 1970 and 1975, which creates a limited time window when they're adults and John is still alive) is an interesting exercise in frustration even though I lived through the period in question. This is because I was only eleven at the time and my family was still using an old Atari computer that could only run one program at a time, used cartridges and actually floppy floppy disks, and had the CPU _in the keyboard_ for fuck's sake. Cutting edge technology was not my thing. (Still isn't, to be honest.)

Anyway, JPEG protocol was first formalized in 1992 in our world, so I figure that in the alpha timeline (with an alien fish empress moving behind the scenes and Jade English doing her best to reverse engineer alien tech like Jake Harley did in the beta timeline) it is not implausible for something along those lines to have happened a bit earlier, like in the late 1980s. Also I have decided that Dave's JPEG artifacts are somehow related to 3D printing technology, which is similarly on an accelerated development schedule in the alpha timeline... and is why Jade is interested in him, since he got funding from SkaiaNet through a few layers of intermediaries. (He doesn't know that yet.)

Dave is expressing his creativity via independent comics and Hollywood rather than the internet because in 1993 the internet was still a relatively tiny and uncoordinated thing and thus of little use in getting his message out to a mass audience. This should go without saying, but the sheer speed with which the net has grown keeps catching me by surprise and it's all too easy to forget how recent a lot of things we take for granted really are.

**End of Story**


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